Mind Over Matter
by brendonurinal
Summary: Three months after the Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock is finds himself in a predicament as he begins to wonder if he was the only one to fake his own death that day.
1. Chapter 1

History is written by the victor. Had the British reclaimed their empire in the America's, people would not so wholeheartedly back the Boston Tea Party as necessary destruction. We only view Napoleon as a dictator rather than our savior because he lost. The same concept can thus be prescribed to my current situation. It was about three months ago that the world saw the downfall of a certain Sherlock Holmes. But I had still won. No one knew, nor could ever know that I had lived. Not unless I wanted to put the only people I confided in into danger. But I was better off alone anyway. I had won.

Yet a gnat had worked its way into my mind, its buzzing wings subtle and confined to the corners of my thoughts but still ever present. It puzzled me, frustrated me, mocked me, and intrigued me, that pest of an idea. And whenever I got close to swatting it all the what-ifs would come to life and swarm around my head. So, for the sake of my fleeting sanity, I left it alone.

But that proved to be a mistake. Every ignored thought only grows stronger, more nagging when let alone. Every once in a while it would pay a short visit to my conscious thoughts, but I always hurriedly pushed it back, never giving myself the chance to fully observe or even appreciate how dominant it had become over the past months. So when that thought had completely taken over my mind, swallowing every last bit of it, I was actually slightly surprised. Things became a blur from there, as they often do when an idle brain latches to an unshakable thought. I came to in a room I recognized surrounded by graffiti I did not. Scratched into mirrors, walls, desks, every available surface were the two words that had haunted me for so long. I closed my eyes and tried not to see it. I envied the people who were so blissfully ignorant. I wished my brain wasn't so vast that I could so easily lose myself in it.

_It isn't true_, I told myself, _it can't be true. You saw him. You saw him do it._ But the thought still pushed, daring me to open my eyes. I refused. I refused to see the lies with which I had decorated the small hotel room. How could I, such an intellectual, have allowed such an obvious fantasy, a work of fiction really, to spread so far throughout my brain? "Open your eyes", the thought seemed to beckon, "see what you've created." I shook my head, as if I could somehow shake this parasite from my mind.

I heard laughter, taunting laughter. The laughter that had once drove me mad. The laughter that had nearly brought London to ruins. I shut my eyes tighter and covered my ears with my hands, as if that would somehow help. It didn't though. The noise became more defined and somehow closer. It continued to grow in my ears louder and louder until I was certain he was in the room with me. I was positive he was standing right next to me, laughing in my ear. Laughing at me. He had done this. He had driven me to this. He was laughing at me, mocking me, teasing me as he knew I could no longer control my own thoughts and that he had been the cause of all this.

The deafening beats of the madman's laugh drove me to insanity. I blindly swatted at the air and caught nothing. No, he was definitely here. He had to be. I could feel his presence. I could hear him laughing. He was with me. He had to be.

Gradually the laughter died down until there was nothing but silence and the sound of my breathing. "Sherlock, you need to face the truth," I heard his maddeningly passive voice whisper in my ear. I felt the heat of his breath on my neck causing all of my hair to stand on end. I had known he was here. "It'll set you free," he hissed, coming closer.

"No," I uttered in the most stern and authoritative voice I could manage at such a moment of confusion and surprise. I sounded like a parent scolding their child.

"Come on Sherlock. Come out and play," He coaxed. I could practically hear the sinister smile upon his lips. I said nothing, and neither did he. It was pure silence and, for at least a second, I had thought he had left. But no, it couldn't be that easy. It never was. Not with him.

"You know, we had a deal," he sounded almost upset, disappointed. "You broke our deal, Sherlock. You let me down. After all I had done for you. I thought we had something special," he sighed. "But it's okay, Sherlock, because now I'm freed from my end of the deal as well. It was such a hassle to keep my men from killing off your 'friends' for such a while. But that's a responsibility I'm no longer obligated to keep."

"No," I repeated, a little of my emotions slipping into the crack in my voice.

"I wonder how I should ask them to do it. Shooting's too quick, too impersonal, don't you agree?" My stomach turned but I refused to say anything more. He wasn't going to break me. I wasn't going to let him. "Maybe I could revive the guillotine. What a great invention that was. It's a shame no one uses it anymore." I balled my hands into fists and clenched my teeth. I would not let him get the better of me. "Then we could collect the heads of course and give that skull on your mantelpiece some friends." My breathing quickened. I was so close to the edge. "And to think, Sherlock," he cleared his throat. "It would all," I exhaled trying to keep my wits, "be," it hadn't helped as I'd so hoped, "you're," I could feel myself slipping, "fault."

"No!" Just then I opened my eyes and frantically searched the room for him. Where could he have gone? He couldn't have escaped that quickly. The doors and window were still locked. He had to still be here with me. I paced the room, searching for any sign of someone beside myself. I traced along the walls until I found myself face to face with a mirror. My reflection, however, was obscured by an etching. The two words that had haunted me for so long were now written across my face. The two words that I couldn't shake from my thoughts. The two words that had brought me to my wits end.

_Moriarty Lives_


	2. Chapter 2

He knew. I knew he knew. He must have figured it out by now at least. I knew he would be absolutely itching for something with which he could occupy his racing mind. The man that never misses one detail would miss me. We had grown so symbiotic, hadn't we? Relied on each other, really, like an old married couple. _Honey could you make some more cases for me to solve? _he would say. _I'm killing as fast as I can! _I would reply with a sigh in my breath and a smile on my lips.

We must have been couple of the year, he and I. We both faked our deaths; both knew the other had faked too. Two creatures of the same mind.

Mine was, however, slightly better trained than his, I'll admit. It was stronger. He hadn't figured out I was alive until much after his whole fall charade. I knew immediately that he hadn't really done it. With an ego and a sense of self-righteousness as large as his, why would he kill himself? He was London's sole savior. The deaths of three people or thousands, the choice had been simple, even for him.

I was actually quite surprised he hadn't noticed sooner that I was alive; or if not Sherlock, who was wrapped up in trying to make his death convincible, at least John. Surely they should have noticed that all the newspaper headlines lacked one crucial key: two bodies, one splat all over the ground and one with his brains blown out on the roof. But the poor actor Rich Brook couldn't even land a role starring in his own obituary, I'm afraid.

Now let's use some Sherlock Holmes deduction. Two people are on a roof. One shoots himself in the head. The other jumps from the building. Both men have died, but only one is mentioned in the newspaper.

Maybe it's because one famous detective was much better known than the actor that would take any job he could find. Then again, the actor gone newspaper informer had remained faceless to the public, thus leading the police to identify the body as that notorious crown jewel thief. Surely London's greatest hero and villain perishing at the same place would have made some catchy headline. So what other possibilities remain?

So then maybe the police never thought to check the roof, where the lifeless body lay. Sherlock's body was on the ground, after all. But then again, wouldn't the roof of the hospital be the first place they'd look? If I recall correctly, most police do love to make a big deal out of a mere suicide. They like to try to find scuffmarks on the ledge or certain bruise patterns on the victim's body to somehow try to make it into a murder that they can solve. So surely they would have seen the second man's body when conducting their investigation on the roof.

That brings us to our third option. Our final option, really. The only way the headline of the year wouldn't have plastered the front page of every magazine and newspaper in the nation: the man on the roof wasn't really dead. He had simply got up and walked off. There was no article because there was no body. I had really hoped people would have caught on quicker.

I couldn't count on Sherlock to find me out for a while because I knew he'd be locked in his own mind. I had hoped that at least John would have caught on. I suppose I overestimated him. He was smart, but ordinary.

Ordinary people get so wrapped up in their own lives. If it doesn't directly affect them, then it doesn't concern them. They will ignore all the facts if it means they can remain within the comfort of their own lives with the people they already know. Empathy is dead, but I'm not.


	3. Chapter 3

Three months. It had been three months since that day, and yet my therapist still insisted that I come see her. A year and a half later and I still get nagging messages on my answering machine interrogating me as to why I didn't show to this appointment or that one. I was able to let it go, why couldn't she?

I had tried telling her that I'd seen things like this before. I was in a war, remember? But she kept insisting this was different. This wasn't the sort of killed-in-action death I was used to seeing. I tried explaining that I had, unfortunately, also witnessed quite a few suicides in my time. Some people are made for war, others break under the pressure. Despite this, she still ordered that I come talk to her, tell her what I was feeling after such a "tragic" event.

The truth is I felt nothing, nothing at all. Numb all over, like a man being prepped for operation. I suppose that's what my therapist saw as peculiar. What she didn't know was numb was a lot better than what I felt after witnessing other suicides. You cry, you grieve, you refuse to accept that there was nothing you could have done to save them. Numb was much better than that. Numb was safe.

I didn't need a therapist. Considering who I lost, what I lost, I thought I was doing pretty well. I didn't cry myself to sleep at night. I didn't wake up every morning with an unshakeable urge to climb to the roof of St. Bart's Hospital and jump, myself. Every day was just normal, and I felt fine. So why I felt so compelled to come to her on that cloudy and humid day, I had no idea.

"Do you know what today is?" she asked in that maddeningly monotonous voice of hers.

"No," I replied brusquely. I immediately regretted coming here. The only good that could come from this was possibly deferring her incessant pestering to make an appointment.

"It's his birthday," she explained, looking up at me, searching my face for some sort of reaction. I gave her none.

"No it isn't," I rebuked, "it _was_ his birthday. Or it _would be_ his birthday," I said flatly. "But today certainly _is_ not his birthday because he is no longer," I tried to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat.

Exhaling, I tried again. "Sherlock is not," I wasn't sure why but I paused. I couldn't bring myself to say it. I couldn't admit it to myself.

"Say it," she encouraged. God, I never felt such a strong urge to hit a woman as I did right then. I didn't even have to be here. She was making me do this. She was making me feel this. I was perfectly fine being numb. She acted like me admitting how sad I really felt would be the breakthrough of a lifetime. She knew I was upset, I knew I was upset, so what good was it doing us to state what we already both knew as fact?

Sherlock killed himself. He was so selfish. Maybe his reputation as a detective was ruined, but who cares? He always was so dramatic, and this time he had taken it too far. He took the easy way out, leaving me to clean up the mess. But I knew I couldn't clean up the mess that was myself, so instead I closed off that day in the furthest away portion of my mind and tried to avoid it at all costs. But along with quarantining that part of my brain, I also had to give up my entitlement to any and all emotions. That's why I felt nothing for so long, and that was much better than the alternative feelings.

She was still staring at me, trying to give me her best look of, what I assume was supposed to be, reassurance. I sighed with resignation. I suppose I would say it if it meant that I would be able to get out of there quicker.

"My, my best friend Sherlock is, " I started. I glanced up at her. She still had her eyes fixed on my face, as if every slight expression I made was the most fascinating thing she's ever seen in her life. "Is dead," I finished, just trying to get the words out of my mouth before they had lingered long enough to sting.

I just noticed the pattering on the window. When had it started raining? I hoped it wasn't too bad; I didn't want to have to wait in a total downpour for the next bus or taxi that happened to drive by. I didn't have an umbrella either. I never was too good at planning ahead in case of –

"John?" her voice droned on like the aimless ticking of a clock.

I merely turned my head towards her to signal that I had heard her. That's all she would get. That's all she deserved. She was saying something about grief taking form in different ways in different people. In the middle of her apparently important speech I stood up and grabbed my cane.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor. I, um, need to go now, though," I hurriedly explained.

"But our session was supposed to last an hour," she called after me, but I was already limping out the door.

It was much worse out than I had expected. The rain came down in buckets, and I was fully soaked within seconds of leaving the small office building. I squinted through the ocean that fell in front of me and caught a flash of orange-yellow light, the kind that typically had the word TAXI written across it in bold black letters. I blindly waved at the car and watched as it waded through the stream of water flowing down the lows in the street.

As soon as it pulled up to the pavement I jumped inside, before I could be pelted with more rain. "Two twenty-one Baker Street," I mindlessly recited, staring out the window. The driver took off without a response.

I suppose taxis should have frightened me, ever since that Study in Pink case. Then again, I had so often been in a vehicle being driven by an unknown face, thanks to Sherlock's brother Mycroft, that I didn't really see any harm in it any more.

The drive back to the apartment wasn't too unbearably long. I handed the driver a few notes, telling him to keep the change, before hopping out and beginning my dash to the door.

I fumbled with the keys, as they kept slipping in my hands from the drenching rain. I finally managed to work it into the keyhole and turn the brass lock without nearly dropping the key.

"I'm back, Mrs. Hudson," I called as I forced the heavy black door open. I could smell that she was preparing some dish for supper. The stairs were a challenge for me as usual, rather laborious with the cane, but I eventually reached the small living room, packed with cardboard boxes.

"What are you making?" I called to her as I removed my coat. I rounded the corner and found her in the kitchen, standing over the stove.

"Oh John, I just started making it. I couldn't help it. It was his favorite, you know. I guess I sort of got used to making his favorite dish on this day and I-" she let out a small sob. She kept her head down, just staring at the pot and its contents.

I rushed to her side and looked over her shoulder. She made pot roast. That was the only thing that she made that he never criticized or made a snarky comment about. She took that to mean it was his favorite.

I tried to see her face, but she was still staring downward. I already knew what it would tell me anyway. She had started to look so old and worn over the past year. The life seemed to have been sucked right out of her. I remember she tried to keep up her old usual cheery appearance for the first few months, but soon gave it up. I knew how hard she must have taken it. She looked to frail now, I was afraid that if I touched her she would fall to pieces. Then again, she already had.

I tried to comfort her, softly resting my hand on her shoulder. I didn't speak, neither did she. Finally, she looked up at me. I could see the small dried up rivers where a tear must have escaped. She tried to say something, but I could see that her voice wouldn't come to her. I knew what she had meant though. Her mouth read, "I miss him so much." All I could do was nod to let her know that she wasn't alone.

I'm not sure what it was. Maybe it was the fact that it was his birthday. Maybe it was the never-ending rain. Maybe it was that old familiar scent of pot roast. Or maybe it was that even then, a year later, there was still that one moment that lasted just a fraction of a second when I ascended those stairs in which I found myself paralyzed with worry when I didn't see Sherlock sitting in his chair tinkering with his violin.

I'm not sure what exactly caused it, but that's when I finally let it out. There, in the kitchen, forehead come to rest on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, that's when the downpour really started.


	4. Chapter 4

It was time. I couldn't take the utter desolation associated with self-imposed solidarity. I was going insane without a case to solve. I knew leaving my run-down motel room would be risky with the whole of London firmly believing that I had taken my own life. That in mind, I set the timer on my watch, allowing myself one hour.

In a city as big as London, the amount of people that would see me over the course of an hour was enormous. Luckily, they all were so egocentric these days, stuck in their little worlds and tweeting every minute detail of their lives as if anyone gives a damn what they had for lunch. They're all too busy filling their heads with such meaningless nonsense as to which celebrity did this or said that or started dating whomever as of late. I knew I could slip by practically unnoticed. Even those that did notice me, I knew, wouldn't dare approach but would rather begin to doubt their own sanity or maybe their eyeglass prescription. They'd rather believe their own senses had lied to them rather than their precious, all-knowing tabloids. One hour would be safe, I was sure of it.

As soon as I opened the door I had already began to feel better. The cool air cleared my head of all the devious thoughts that had been occupying it. The sweet city air. The grey skies threatened rain but I paid no attention to them. You get used to the constant overcast weather when you've spent your whole life here. I took one more deep breath, taking in the freedom of the outside world, before working up the courage to step out of the doorframe and sever the connection between me and the room that had become my home over the past few weeks. I finally cut the tie between us as I slammed the door shut.

I liked this motel much more than many of the others I had stayed in since I had allegedly killed myself. No maids came until you checked out, which meant I could stay there for ages without the risk of anyone noticing me. The rooms were also cheap enough for me to be able to pay up front in cash. Dead men can't use credit cards, after all. My checkout date was in a few days, and while I would have been more than happy with spending a few more nights at this motel, I knew I had to keep moving, lest someone find me.

And yes, I knew for a fact there were people out there looking for me. Molly, for one. She knew I was still alive, as she'd helped me conduct the entire act. But I couldn't tell her where I was for I knew she would eventually take pity and end up telling John. The police were definitely looking for me as well. Well not actively looking, I was as dead to them as any of the bodies they were investigating, but they would certainly be keeping a watchful eye out for me, as they probably needed my help, as usual.

Then there was Moriarty. He was looking for me. Or maybe he already knew where I was. He was smart, genius, really. And that sort of intelligence is dangerous, especially when you're not mentally stable. He was out there, somewhere, plotting my next fall. He wouldn't be satisfied, I knew. Not with unfinished business such as myself. So he would be looking for me, and I had to remain in the city's shadows.

I started walking down the street. It was unusually empty. I supposed most people were either visiting warmer areas this time of year or at home with their families still celebrating the holidays. I made my way towards a main road. I needed some form of public transport.

I couldn't do a taxi. With the two of us shoved into a car together, the driver wouldn't be able to stop himself from noticing my face, which had made the cover of almost every magazine and newspaper in London, if not most of England. I needed a large amount of people in one area. I needed a place where people were in a hurry. A bus was far too open as well. A stranger might happen to notice me, try to sit next to me, talk to me. No I needed something better. I needed something louder and more crowded. I needed a place that people wanted to actively block out the world around them. I needed the Tube.

The nearest station was just a few blocks away. I quickened my pace as I reminded myself that I only had one hour to roam the city before I needed to shut myself away in my dark room once again. When I reached the station, I joined the small stream of people filing down the steps underground. Not paying much attention to my manners, I pushed people out of my way, put my Underground card in the slot, and proceeded as quickly as possible through the masses.

When I reached the platform, I didn't pay much attention to which railway line I was taking and simply boarded the first train that I saw. I found a pole to clutch relatively out of sight near the back. As the car jolted forward, it occurred to me that it didn't really matter where I was going as long as I could get out of that hellish confinement of an apartment. I needed to move about. I needed my old freedom. I knew it wasn't safe, exactly, to be out in public like this. But I suppose I needed that rush as well. It was the kind of on edge feeling I used to get when a new case would arrive, a real puzzle aching to be solved. I would collect my coat and we would head to the door, telling Mrs. Hudson we'd be back late, and then we would head off to the scene of the crime, me and-

I shifted my left arm around the pole as my right hand shuffled through my pockets trying to find my phone, the source of the growingly irritating rings. Very few people knew the number of my recently purchased disposable phone. But of course Molly did. And that's why I saw St. Bart's Hospital's number displayed across the front of my ringing phone. I never answered her calls, which is why it was so strange for me to feel such a nagging sensation to do so right then. After weighing the options in my mind, I picked up the phone. After all, maybe she did have some case I could solve from the privacy of my room.

"Yes?" I picked up, not one for formalities.

"Okay I know you don't want me knowing where you are and that's fine but – wait. Sherlock?" she sounded surprised.

"Yes?" I repeated.

"Sorry, it's just you never answer your phone when I call."

"Molly if you could make it quick."

"Right, sorry. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, I guess. That's, you know, why I called," I could hear she was nervous.

I hadn't even realized it was my birthday. Then again I never paid much attention to parties for such mundane occasions anyway. I waited in silence to see if she had anything else to add, like maybe a new case. But she said nothing, and so neither did I.

"Right, well, I guess that's all," she sighed.

"Goodbye Molly," I droned, about to click away the conversation.

"Wait! Sherlock, just, wait. I know you don't want people to know where you're hiding out, but John and Mrs. Hudson – "

"Can get by on their own. They're much safer without me anyway," I interrupted.

"But don't you at least miss them?"

"I'm fine on my own, Molly," I insisted. I knew they definitely needed me more than I needed them. People were so quick to become attached to others that they could so easily lose. They were only setting themselves up for heartbreak and loneliness. I didn't need them. I had worked for years on my own without them. They were just my old flat mates. Nothing special.

I hung up this time without a goodbye. I had spent too much time talking to her already. I looked around me, just to make sure there was no one on board that might recognize me from having worked with them. Nobody looked familiar. I had been correct. They would all simply be caught up in their boring little lives.

I got off at the next station, not quite sure how long I had been on the train. Judging by how long I had been talking to Molly plus the time I had spent watching the trains other inhabitants, I must have been on for at least seven stops, and no more than ten. I emerged from the Underground and began walking down whatever street I was on. It had started raining. Pouring really, and here I was left without an umbrella. I let myself become absorbed in my own thoughts, now that I could finally think outside of that hellish room. I kept my head down, strictly watching the soaked pavement. I let my feet guide themselves, letting them go where they pleased on the puddle soaked pavement. I went wherever my body took me as I stayed within the comfort of my own mind.

Then something shook me. It was horrifying, and brought me back to the surface of my conscious mind once again. A sob. A screaming cry. That was it! A lovely murder must be taking place. I would have to let the killer go, of course, so I could solve the puzzle and figure out who it was on my own.

The cry sounded muffled. So it must be indoors. It was definitely close enough to a nearby window for it to permeate well enough for me to hear it. Judging by the lower tones of the vocal cords the victim was definitely a female over the age of fifty. The fact that the sobs had tapered off, though she might still be crying softer, suggest that it was not a quick kill, but something more torturous. She was probably slowly bleeding to death in one of these rooms.

I scanned all the nearest windows. Nothing, nothing, man watching television, nothing, family dinner, nothing, nothing, nothing. Then I saw it. Then I realized where I was. Baker Street. And the cry had been no other than that of Mrs. Hudson, who was now clinging to John in the window of our old flat. They were pressed together, supporting one another as they both fell apart.

Cause of death: heart torn out.

Perpetrator: Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
